


you can count on me (to misbehave)

by amethystsarah



Category: Firefly, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, M/M, Pre-Slash, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:32:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amethystsarah/pseuds/amethystsarah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles never really expected to be a criminal piloting his way across the ‘Verse, but hey, what did that tell you about life? A whole stinkin’ lot, in fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can count on me (to misbehave)

**Author's Note:**

> This is apparently what happens when I do a Firefly rewatch during the Teen Wolf season. Anyway, this sort of grew into a monster of a fic which I take full blame for. 
> 
> In Firefly they use a lot of slang when talking but when I wrote this I couldn't imagine any TW character talking that way, so there's a bit of a lack of Firefly-esque speak, so to say. I also did want to fit Isaac and Boyd in but I couldn't find a way to do it. 
> 
> Lastly, the title is from Marina and the Diamond's Primadonna which was put on repeat more than once while I was writing this.

 “I would just like to state, for future reference, that this is a Very Terrible Idea,” Stiles mutters, surveying Serenity’s loading dock from his position on the upper platform that overlooks it. “Capitalization intended for maximum effect.”

Lydia sweeps past him, strawberry blonde curls in perfect arrangement, somehow managing to shoot him a look while simultaneously walking in the opposite direction. She really does scare him sometimes.

“Shutting it, Boss Lady,” he calls after her, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the railing. He can never sit still; it’s part of what makes him such a good pilot. All of the energy he has coiled up inside of him, which translates into spastic movements and endless talking, settles into intense focus when he’s behind the metaphorical wheel.

Allison steps out onto the platform, brushing a comforting hand down his back as she walks past him and down the stairs. “Everything’s going to be fine, you’ll see,” she says before reaching Scott—who’s moving the boxes of stolen goods with Jackson—and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Stiles grumbles inwardly. Easy for her to say, she’s in love. He can’t fault her too much though, because Allison is awesome. Stiles loves Serenity with all of his heart but Allison is the mechanic and if there’s one person more attached to this ship than him (or Lydia, now that he thinks about it), it’s her. Plus, she makes his best friend happy so what else matters?

Jackson heaves the last of the stolen goods into the designated hiding spot—which is little more than a small space in the wall, honestly, even a foxhole would be better—and shoves the paneling back into place once he’s done. Stiles has to admit it doesn’t look out rightly suspicious, but Alliance agents are everywhere—local color spreads like wildfire—and he’d like to have a bit more than old paneling between him and evidence that’ll send him to prison half way across the ‘Verse.

“Alright everyone,” Lydia calls, moving to stand in the center of the lower deck. She tilts her head just so, managing to get everyone in her line of sight, and cocks her hip. The position is flawlessly commanding. “Erica is joining up with us in a moment, so, Stiles, I need you to be at the helm and help her lock in over the comm.”

He hmms in response; this is nothing new. Erica is a Companion who rents one of their two shuttles; she’s a part of the crew by now. She conducts her business on her own time, can usually snag them a few contacts with her connections, and also kicks butt when needed.

Lydia continues. “We’re picking up a few passengers because we need the money, so all of our extracurricular activities are not to be mentioned.” Only Lydia would describe crime as _extracurricular_.

“Keep to the story I mentioned. We’re just the crew of an older-model Firefly, traveling to the backward planets and the Alliance sometimes commandeers us to drop off health supplies for the planets on the far ends of their solar system.”

She finishes up and they break apart. He heads up towards the cockpit to wait for Erica’s signal.

***

Stiles meets the new passengers at dinner; there’s three of them. A nice, practical preacher called Deaton whom he immediately likes, a rather stern man named Harris, and the frighteningly attractive Derek Hale who has an expensive leather jacket practically molded to the contours of his chest and an attachment to the large crate he brings on board.

Hey, Stiles figures, if it’s some weird crate fetish, then he’s safe because he’s only admiring from afar. The man can barely grit out replies to any questions he gets asked at dinner and there’s a constant, pained scowl on his face. Stiles isn’t going there, nope, not at all.

The most awkward moment at dinner is when Deaton asks if he can say grace before they eat. Lydia snaps, “Only if you say it out loud,” but Allison smiles kindly at Deaton and smoothes things over. Jackson shoots their captain a confused look but only he and Scott understand because the three of them fought together in the Unification War. Only he and Scott know that Lydia doesn’t believe in religion or luck, only in math and science, in her brain and the smarts of her ship’s crew.

The next few days are tense as the passengers settle in but nothing is as bad as he expects. Of course, everything’s shot to gorram hell when Stiles discovers, while checking over Serenity’s system, that someone has sent a message hailing the nearest Alliance cruiser.

“Fuck,” he mutters, paging Scott over the comm. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

They meet in the corridor and Scott’s eyes are already wide in panic. “We’re criminals,” he mutters to Stiles. “We commit crime.”

“Glad we got that cleared up, buddy,” Stiles says, defaulting to sarcasm, and pats him on the back. “Gee, I thought for a second there we were in for one uncomfortable talk.”

Scott, bless him, shakes his head and for the most part chooses to ignore that statement—which, now that Stiles thinks of it, is probably part of why Scott is Lydia’s second in command as well as his best friend. The second part is because he hates killing people and can usually manage to tone down violence if one of their trade deals goes wrong.

Scott continues. “No, I mean, what if one of the passengers found out and hailed that cruiser?”

It’s a frighteningly realistic possibility.

They walk to the lower deck, which turns out to be a really, really bad idea because when they actually get there, Lydia has Derek at gunpoint and Harris is also armed and locked on Derek. Stiles sees Jackson, also armed and rushing down to help from the upper platform, but he concentrates on the words being exchanged instead as he walks closer to the situation. One more gun, even though he has complete faith in all of Jackson’s mercenary capabilities, is not going to help matters.

“Pull this Firefly over and prepare to be docked,” Harris orders, and there’s a slightly out-of-control look in his eyes that Stiles doesn’t like. “Captain Martin, this man is a fugitive and I don’t have to remind you it is against the law to harbor criminals.”

Lydia flips her blinding smile on, the one she uses in tense situations and at weddings. “Oh, we have no quarrel with the Alliance, Agent Harris. If you need this man—“

Stiles walks closer, which is another bad decision in a long list of bad decisions, because Harris spooks, gun whipping around to aim at him, and there’s a very loud sound and very sudden burning flash of pain—

Stiles wonders how he came to be looking up at the ceiling. It’s not a bad ceiling, as far as ceilings go—

His thoughts cut off. He feels numb, sort of like he’s disconnected from the rest of the world. There’s people surrounding him but he’s having trouble concentrating. Scott’s hands are framing his face, palms sweaty, and Erica has come running out of her cabin, eyes alert and fierce, trained on him as well. Jackson has knocked out Harris and—

Derek kneels next to him, pressing his hands to Stiles’ gut even though Stiles doesn’t understand why—because he can’t feel a thing so nothing bad must have happened, right?—and says, “I’m a doctor.”

“Then fix him!” Allison yells, frantic, but Derek is turning to Lydia and stating resolutely, “Not if you let the Alliance cruiser dock. Not unless you flee.”

Silence.

Stiles opens his mouth, trying to speak (always trying to speak, his mind notes absently) but Lydia interrupts, bites out a furious agreement. The minute Derek turns back to him though, Stiles knows it’s a bad idea because he knows this crew. Erica, on Lydia’s quick signal, walks over to the luggage on the far side of the platform, braces herself, and shoves open Derek’s crate.

A stream of mist emits from it and Derek jumps to his feet. Jackson cocks his gun—trains it right at the guy’s face—and says roughly, “You’re not going anywhere right now.”

There’s a desperate flood of emotions on Derek’s face and a roar of words coming out of his mouth. Stiles studies the tilt of his mouth, his strange eyes, and thinks, _fascinating_. However, the mist from the crate clears and there’s a terrified shriek and a naked girl climbing out of the crate.

His eyes flutter closed and it’s kind of hard to pay attention after that.

***

The next thing Stiles sees are the bright lights of the infirmary and Scott hovering over him, cuffing his head gently and telling him not to do that again.

“Yes, because I planned on getting shot,” Stiles wants to say, but his mouth won’t work and the words trip and stumble their way out in odd sounds.

Derek moves into his line of sight abruptly, ordering him gruffly to stop talking. He opens his mouth to retort but Derek’s hands are wrapping around Stiles’ arm, and he can feel it this time, can feel Derek’s warm palm and slightly calloused fingers. There’s a jolt of pain and before sliding back into unconsciousness he slurs out, “You drugged me,” in accusing tones.

***

Stiles gets the whole story when he wakes up. Turns out Derek Hale is Alliance born and raised, and so is his older sister Laura Hale, who was the girl from the crate. They’re, get this, _werewolves_! Stiles is kind of excited about that, at least until Scott finishes telling him the story.

It’s not like werewolves are extinct or anything, but there are a few prominent families, some smaller ones, and that’s about it, as far as Stiles knows. They have equal rights and all—mainly, he suspects, because most of them fought on the Alliance side of the war—but they’re a whole lot better than Reavers so who’s complaining?

Laura Hale, apparently, was selected to attend an elite Alliance academy because she was some sort of child genius—maybe because she was a werewolf as well? Stiles doesn’t ask Scott though —but Derek discovered that the Alliance was torturing and experimenting on students there and rescued her.

Stiles can imagine Derek telling this to the rest of the crew, voice low and sentences short, stopping when he doesn’t have the words, and hey, maybe he’s attracted to opposites, because Stiles _always_ has words.

The story sets his curiosity ablaze but he figures it’s a good plan to avoid both of them because, hey, it’s not like Derek actually likes him. He remembers the whole getting-shot-and-refusing-to-help thing quite well, thank you very much. That’s why Stiles avoids them anyway, until he stumbles on Derek in the kitchen.

He’s rifling through the cupboards, trying it seems, to come up something suitable to eat for lunch. There are two plates out in the counter, so Stiles assumes he’s making lunch for his sister as well.

“Try the cupboard to your left,” Stiles says, walking closer because he can never leave anything alone and if you put it like that he’s just a sucker for bad decisions.

Derek’s eyes narrow but he turns back around and does what he says. A few packets of dried and pressurized food fall out of the specified cupboard; Stiles grins in satisfaction.

“There you go,” he adds, “that wasn’t so bad, was it? I mean, you didn’t ask for help or anything, but seriously dude.”

Silence.

Stiles rambles on. “Not this is awkward or anything, but I was thinking it might be, you know, because of the whole refusing to treat me when I was bleeding out on the ground—thanks for that by the way—and well, common courtesy and all—“

Suddenly Derek’s in front of him, slamming him against the countertop, a growl building up in his throat. Stiles’ pulse rockets uncontrollably. He tries looking away but his eyes keeping sliding back to focus on Derek’s face. He can feel Derek’s hands, the warmth almost branding, from where they’re gripping his clothes, holding him against the counter.

Derek’s eyes flash an icy blue and he grits out, “She’s my _sister_.”

Stiles thinks what he’s really trying to say is, _I would do it again and again—bargain a life—if it would protect her._ And he gets it, he does. He thinks of his dad, of his long gone mother, of everyone on this damn ship, and knows he would do the exact same thing.

“Yeah,” he says quietly instead, “I know.”

Derek looks almost bewildered at his words, grip loosening, and Stiles wants to say something—something like _you shouldn’t take anything I say seriously, I never do_ —but for once he does the good thing: he leaves.

***

There’s not much exercise to be had on an old-model Firefly but they manage, mainly by playing lacrosse. Lydia insists everyone keep in shape in case one of their trading deals turns violent (and well, you never know, especially if it’s hot cargo) so Stiles can kind of see the logic to it.

However, Jackson shoves him in his haste to steal the ball from Scott and before Stiles can control it his gut twinges sharply, a shadow of his old injury, and he folds in on himself, tumbling onto the floor breathlessly.

Jackson stops playing abruptly, his eyebrows furrowed and his pretty-boy face all scrunched up. He manages an, “Uh…” before Stiles snaps bad-temperedly.

“Thanks for that,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I mean, really, I appreciate it.”

“Shut up,” Jackson grunts, pulling him up off the floor, eyes checking him over for any other injuries quickly.

Stiles knows this is Jackson’s way of showing concern so he shrugs it off. They’re mean to each other on a daily basis, it’s a miracle Lydia hasn’t locked them together in a room to solve what she would call their “unresolved man issues.”

Erica laughs and his eyes flit away to find her sitting on the upper platform, leaning her arms against the railing. She’s dressed in gorgeous fabrics as always, but more than that, there’s something striking about the way she carries herself. “You can sit up here with me, Stilinski,” she offers. “I’m not sure your constitution can handle lacrosse yet.”

He sniffs in response but walks up the stairs anyway and plops down next to her, hanging his feet over the side of the upper deck. Erica grins fiercely at him and Stiles realizes how much he’s missed her.

She sees the softening in his eyes and shoves him light-heartedly. “Don’t go all sentimental on me,” she orders.

He shrugs, making a ‘who, me?’ expression at her. “You and Lydia break my poor heart on a daily basis,” he informs her.

Lydia, taking a break from their game below, hops up and perches on a barrel next to Jackson, who practically preens at her presence, though Stiles may be being a bit judgmental. She snorts at his comment, combing through her hair with dainty fingers. They all know he had an alarmingly big crush on her when he was first hired, but it’s been a few years and reality happened to kick in fast. Besides, he’s the one who’s going to the win the pool they have going, on when she and Jackson are finally going to do it.

“Oh captain, my captain,” he calls down in response to her snort.

“I have people willing to replace you,” Lydia drawls lazily, looking up at him.

“Nah,” Stiles says. “I’m the only one who will fly Serenity the way she deserves to be flown.”

“What, like she’s a death trap?” Erica mocks but he simply leans against the railing and enjoys the sound the Allison’s laughter and Scott and Jackson’s bickering.

***

Stiles is on one of his midnight snack runs, after putting Serenity on autopilot, when he hears it. Crying. He ignores the growl of his stomach and heads down the rather dusty and rusted hallway. (Serenity, the old girl that she is, needs some touch-ups after all.) There’s a cabin door ajar and he peers in, unable to help himself.

Laura Hale is up against the wall, arms curled protectively around herself. The light from the only lamp in the room throws shadows across the planes of her face, but Stiles can still see the tear tracks down her cheeks.

Derek approaches her cautiously, hands spread outwards. “Laura,” he breathes, and Stiles can almost _see_ the pain in his voice, it’s so palpable. Stiles swallows.

“It was just a nightmare,” he continues, walking closer until he can slide his hands up her arms and draw her into a hug. “Nothing can hurt you now. We’re both safe, okay? I’ve made sure of it.”

Stiles sees it before Derek does—maybe it’s instinct now, even after the years that have passed since his last panic attack—but he recognizes some signs in Laura; how her breath hitches, how her fingers scrabble for purchase, digging into Derek like she’s checking that he’s real.

What Stiles doesn’t expect to see is how Laura’s eyes flash red, how her panic transforms into confused self-defense. She slams Derek into the wall, growling before she stops almost abruptly a moment later in bewilderment because Derek doesn’t even fight back. He just lets her rough him up, standing still and quiet.

Stiles is somewhat of a people-watcher and he’s been surreptitiously observing Derek (what, come on, they’re in the black here, he takes what he can get and it’s not like ogling planets does it for him) and he kind of gets that this is a big deal. The guy walks around crouched defensively most of the time, like people are up and going to attack him with a moment’s notice. Trust issues don’t even _begin_ to explain it. But he never treats Laura as a threat; he never treats her as anything less than his sister.

“Derek?” she asks, voice pale and confused.

“It’s okay,” he soothes gruffly, drawing her back into a hug, and suddenly Stiles feels way too intrusive, knows he’s witnessed something that is too private, personal.

He retreats, back the way he came, and soothes his guilt by eating what little pressurized food snacks they have left while checking up on Serenity’s vitals in the pilot’s cabin. His thoughts hum quietly along with the ship’s engine.

***

Stiles is pretty awesome at Chinese checkers and he’s also a pretty friendly guy, if he does say so himself, which is how he winds up playing one of several games with Laura. He’s only made about four moves but when it’s Laura’s turn again, she slides one piece across the board and wins. He stares at her in terrified awe. It’s the sort of look he usually reserves for Lydia, actually.

“Wha—how?” he splutters, and looks up at her to see her startling laugh at his surprise. She throws her whole head back when she laughs and for a moment Stiles can see the girl that she must have been before whatever those purple-bellies at the academy did to her. It makes him kind of sad and angry in turns.

“You have got to teach me that,” he says enthusiastically instead and she grins, a quick flash of teeth, before agreeing with a nod. 

The door to the room bursts open; Stiles jumps, Laura looks calmly over her shoulder. There’s a still sort of moment; Derek glances from where he’s looming in intimidating fashion by doorway to where he sits with Laura. Stiles guesses he panicked about Laura’s whereabouts and fights the urge to say something that probably wouldn’t be well received.

Today is one of Laura’s good days, he thinks. The bad days are usually easy to tell; she has to be sedated sometimes, on those days.

“We’re playing Chinese checkers,” Laura says decisively, turning back to face the table. “You can join us, Derek,” she adds, throwing the offer over her shoulder as she sets the pieces back into their original places.

Derek lumbers over, awkwardly settling his weight on the seat next to Laura, opposite from Stiles and Stiles kind of wants to laugh, because Derek isn’t nearly so scary when he doesn’t fit into his chair properly and while he’s eyeing Laura protectively.

They play another game—Laura wins again—and they’re cleaning up the pieces, Stiles can’t help himself.

“You know,” he says to Derek, eyes fixed on the wooden checkers in his hand, “we all have tragic pasts around here. I’m saying, um, it’s okay,” he finishes lamely. Stiles exhales, bits his lip, and glances back up at Derek.

Derek’s eyes flicker down to where he’s sucked his bottom lip into his mouth—Stiles releases it with a pop—and then meets his own eyes with an unreadable stare. “What’s yours?” Derek asks, his voice low and a bit husky, like he hasn’t gotten used to actual conversation yet.

What’s his tragic past? He wouldn’t know where to start, except that by Derek and Laura’s standards, it’s nothing to complain about. Stiles sucks in a small breath—even after all these years he doesn’t thinking too much about it; denial is a nice place to be—and unclenches his palm where a few stray checkers lay.

“It’s not a big deal,” is what he says instead, and Derek looks at him— _look_ looks, with those pale green eyes of his, like he knows he’s lying and is going to call him out on it—but Stiles throws the remaining checkers into the bag and zips it up and when he’s done, the moment is over.

Something in Stiles twinges uncomfortably. It might be his heart but he blames his old injury instead.

***

They’re all huddled in the pilot cabin and Stiles is panicking. “I’m going to kill me, then Lydia is going to kill me, then Reavers are going to kill me,” he says all in one burst of air, fingers tapping out a pattern on the controls.

“Stiles,” Derek growls, and the way he’s ducking his head so he can fit himself in the small pilot’s cabin has hysterical laughter bubbling up out of Stiles’ throat.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he gasps, swiveling in his chair to look at Lydia, Scott, Jackson who are huddled in the corner along with Derek. Laura and Erica are in Erica’s shuttle, which is as safe a place as any.

Scott, dark eyes creased with worry, tells him, “Allison’s in the engine room. She wants to perform a Crazy Ivan; she says it’ll get the Reavers off our tail.”

He nods, still somewhat breathless. “That would do it. You know, if we could actually manage to do that without turning Serenity into scrap in the process and probably killing ourselves too. Which is pretty unlikely if you ask me.”

When it’s pointed out that this is pretty much their only choice though, he has to concede. What can he say, the possibilities are much more preferable than being eaten by cannibal drifters.

He and Allison talk over the radio and in what seems like a moment he’s gripping the controls and listening for her ready signal. She clips a wire in the engine room and reattaches it somewhere else, giving him a bit extra power to work with, and signals. A familiar rush of adrenaline fills him and Stiles uses it to his advantage, deftly handling the controls.

Several tense minutes later they’re in a different part of the solar system, no Reavers following them, and he and Allison are chanting the drinking song they learned on White Fall, voices mingling together over the comm.

Stiles tells Scott that he and Allison are going to start a band—because, come on, they can harmonize like nobody’s business—and leans back in his chair, breathless all over again, surveying the cabin. 

They’re all alive and it’s enough for now. 


End file.
